Tag: trowel

Archeological Doug

It was a hot, sunny day as Phosilia joined her colleagues at the archaeological dig. She had her personal trowel tucked jauntily into the waistband of her thin cotton shorts,  and her arms were above her head, hastily gathering her long hair into the control of a big hairclip. This action elevated her chestage to spine-tingling heights.  Adam, the director of the dig, was pointing and explaining the day’s plan on a large flipchart. Phosilia wiggled her eyebrows in a combined acknowledgement of and apology for,  her tardiness. The others were used to it,  and in truth no-one  (including Adam) minded as she always arrived just a teensy bit flustered, only a few moments behind schedule and with a heaving breathy urgency which rendered her volumpties worth the wait.  Today’s  hairclip episode was a bonus .

The plans and progress summary complete, everyone dispersed to their work zones. Phosilia had been recently assigned to a new one,  where she had much support from her coworkers; indeed when the allocation had been made she pointedly asked if anyone would like to join her in her trench and was positively inundated with offers. Only one could be chosen and it was Doug

It was very hot in her trench,  especially when she squatted down to start work. Crouched next to her was the keen fellow who was extremely deft with his trowel and brush. Phosilia had noticed his hand action straightaway; he was young and strong, his trowel was large and firm, – not yet blunted or scuffed in action. It gleamed in the sunshine, evoking his youth and strength.

They worked side by side for a while, concentrating on their respective work but keenly aware each of the other. Side glances from Doug revealed that the morning’s efforts were causing Phosilia to sweat a little: wisps of her hair, though it was mostly held up in the clip, were clinging to her skin. Doug, for the first time in his life , considered the upside of being hair. She saw his glance, and a dusty thrill ran through her, culminating in a big breath the like of which Doug had never previously been so proximal to. He was abruptly aware of the perilous quality of buttons in restraining so volumpticious a heavage. In a split moment he could feel beads of sweat on the back of his neck too, as the imminent prospect of button failure obscured all thoughts of archaeology.

Phosilia pointed with her little trowel at something in their trench. It was near the bottom,  and as she was squatting, this was in both senses.

“I think it’s a shard” she whispered urgently into Doug’s ear. Doug, feeling discovered, blushed to the roots of his becomingly rumpled hair.

“Is it that obvious?” He asked anxiously

“Oh yes. It’s sticking out quite clearly”

Doug stood up hastily, his trowel protectively in front of his loins

“I’m so sorry!” He exclaimed

Phosilia tugged him. Only on the sleeve, but it was a start.

“Seriously! Help me out! Get down here -” she patted the dusty base of the trench beside her – “I need you. Yours is bigger. If you can get it in,  it will really speed things up”

Doug nodded,  all speech having deserted him. He got down on his knees, dropping the trowel as he did so.

Phosilia,  in a state of agitation, grabbed it

“Oh I like the grip”  she said, hefting it from hand to hand. Doug, a tumultuous mixture of disappointment and excitement, nodded

“Oh I see….yes” he eventually replied.

They leaned close in together, hot bodies touching here and there,  deep down in their trench. Doug’s strong tanned hands worked deftly, manipulating his huge tool until the shards were freed. Phosilia found the symphony of his bulging arm muscles at least as mesmerising as the gradually revealing shards. Eventually, excavational urgency motivating her, she reached forward, pushing his hand aside

“I can do this with my fingers” she explained, exchanging a brief glance during which their eyes meaningfully locked together for a significant moment.

Doug watched, entranced, as her fingers worked easing the shard free.

Eventually it was out, and, heads together, their hair entangling, bowed over their find. It sported a beautifully decorated rim, with fine markings leading down to the broken edge. Doug spoke for them both when he expressed a desire to see the rest of it.

“It could be anywhere round here” Phosilia observed, gesturing around their trench. “Could take ages. Or we may never find it”

Doug explained that he didn’t mind if it took a while.  He preferred to be thorough. Phosilia observed that the trench was already very deep, and incidentally, that its bottom (unlike her own callipygenerous buttoculars) was very flat.

She also observed that his massive trowel, shiny and strong as it was, could achieve more than she could alone.

Together they decided to explore the trench together, to see if the promise offered by the glimpsed artefact could deliver the excitement and pleasure they both anticipated.

Many discoveries were made that day: much was uncovered, turned over with gentle fingers, handled with tenderness. Doug’s large tool did not disappoint, and Phosilia’s buttons proved inadequate to contain her excitement.  But that was fine

 

 

 

Chris & Tina: Gardening in the parsley patch

Tina loved her garden: In the spring it burst with life, and every year she was delighted and astounded by the rapidity of its change from drab winter to fecund and voluptuous growth. However, even she had to admit that the general fecundity had gone a bit far. So far, indeed as to almost completely obscure the small pond, and some of the little paths.
So she was pleased when a card in the local newsagents advertised that Chris could come and mow her lawn, tend to her beds, and prune her shrubs.
Chris had left a mobile number on the card, so she sent a text. The response was quick and promised Chris’s arrival the following morning.

Tina dressed in her gardening clothes too: she was going to join in – being uncomfortable with just watching. So when Chris’s van pulled in she was in grubby jeans and wellies. No matter: when Chris got out of the van, she too was in grubby jeans and wellies.

There was a moment, just a very short, almost imperceptible (unless you were one of the two women) moment of readjustment as they looked at each other. Each took in the matching outfits, and the fact that they both looked rather good in them. Maybe there is something about a well-turned welly, or the smudges of earth on the knees of a pair of jeans which have been worn and loved into the exact shape of their owner’s buttoculars.

Whatever it was, it infused the ensuing conversation with a extra layer of meaning – sliding like strands of mist around and amongst them.
Chris broke the meaningful silence
“Shall I take a look around? Then you can tell me where you want to start”
Tina already knew, but didn’t want to seem forward. At least, not TOO forward.
She accompanied Chris as she walked round the garden. It was quite large, with hedges which had grown a little too high, shrubs that were a bit too big, flowerbeds a little overgrown. Nothing she couldn’t handle.
“I’m getting a feel for your style, the way you like things” Chris eventually said. They locked eyes – which was tricky as for a while neither could find the key
“I like a cottagey style” Tina replied “relaxed, informal, ….” – she trailed off, her eyes drawn to Chris’s ample breastage swinging out over a flowerbed as she bent down – “I like things to spill out”

Chris stood upright, the gently oscillating frontage settling back into position. “I know exactly what you mean” she assured “I’d be delighted to work on your beds”

They continued to walk round the garden, in silence, until they reached an overgrown quince, its branches sprawling.
“Your bush could do with a trim” Said Chris, without looking at Tina, who nodded.
“What would you like me to do first?” Chris left the question hanging in the air. It hung therefor a while, before settling somewhere near Tina’s unruly bush.
“I’d like help with my beds” she replied, dampeningly.

Chris fetched her toolbelt from the van, and slung it around her curveaceous hips with a confident swagger. As she walked, the trowels and forks and secateurs swung gently with each swish of her hips. Tina could see her buttocks joining in a bit too, which was nice.
They crouched together at the edge of the larger flower bed. It was overgrown with perennials which had outlasted their prime. Chris started explaining her strategy: “What you want to have is some nice strong, well-shaped perennials to give structure, and then you get some good bedding each year to fill in”
Tina nodded eagerly: she was keen on the whole idea of getting some good bedding, especially if there was some filling in too. It was delightful to be with someone who so understood her needs.

Chris had a very good eye for these things, and had some recommendations to make; “What you need over there is a statement plant. I would suggest a Red Hot Poker. One of my favourites. It comes up time after time. It always delivers” Tina nodded breathlessly, admiring at the same time the way the breezes ruffled Chris’s curleaceaous hair, which tumbled down over her shoulders.
“How about Love in a Mist?” she suggested, hopefully. “I love that too” purred Chris

They weeded and tidied together for a while, til finally Chris felt they had done enough. “I’ll get a good layer of mulch over that and it’ll soon get everything going”
She was squatting beside the bed, toolbelt and jeans having slipped slightly southwards, just enough to reveal the sort of little furrow Tina would like to sow some seeds in, so to speak. Even without a layer of mulch, Tina felt everything was getting going.
“It must be time for a cup of tea!” she exclaimed, “Let’s have a break. Come inside and have a sit down”

They went into the kitchen, dragging off wellies at the doorway and shaking out crumpled jeans, – an action which got all four buttocks jiggling happily.
The kettle was soon on, tea was soon mashing. Tina suggested they sit down. Chris worried that her jeans were too dirty for the sofa.
Tina reassured her “You’re not too dirty for MY sofa” and they sat down together. Chris wriggled uncomfortably, and then giggled as she realised she had sat down with the toolbelt on.
“I sat on my dibber!” she cried, pulling the large wooden item from beneath herself
“Let me help you out of that” said Tina, undoing the buckle hurriedly
Chris smiled “That’s not the toolbelt” she said. But she didn’t mind.

The tea mashed. For longer than is generally advised. Neither noticed; they had both forgotten the tea. For although their throats may have been dry, the flowerbeds were damp. And as time wore on, inhibitions were loosened. They shared their enthusiasm for summer bedding and good tools. There was no mulch to hand to get them going, but it didn’t take long before they were able to enjoy plants in all their forms – climbing sprawling, squat, trailing. And as for the toolbelt? It lay on the floor, forgotten for now, except for the dibber.